


Death of the Outsider

by Destii



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Human Outsider (Dishonored), Human Sacrifice, Murder, Pre-Dishonored (Video Game), The Void, Whales, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24053107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destii/pseuds/Destii
Summary: My take on the process in which The Outsider was created.
Kudos: 9





	Death of the Outsider

He screamed. Hands held his arms, gripping tight, bruising skin, yanking. He scrambled over his own feet, dropping his weight, scraping his toes against the ground. He struggled, twisting, ripping, screeching, kicking, but still, they dragged him on. Hands covered his mouth, grasped his throat from behind, squeezing. He choked on his cry, coughing deep as the hand was removed. He hacked, filling his mouth with saliva. The men around him continued their advance, hooded figures in black. They chanted, their voices deep and melodic. An ancient language. The air was becoming heavy, like water filling his lungs. He couldn’t breathe.

He lashed out at the man next to him, clawing at the cloak, trying to find some purchase. They were strong, too strong. He fell, letting them carry his full weight. He stuck his legs out before him, pushing back against their momentum. Someone wrapped arms around his waist, forced their weight against his back, pushing him upwards, onwards. The world about them swirled, shattered stone and dark clouds, drifting in a syrupy space. Something took up a keening cry somewhere. An obsequy. Misery struck him, such utter emptiness and mourning. Tears welled up and fell away freely to float in the air about his face.

They finally dropped him. He wasn’t ready for the release and fell heavily, slamming his face against the stone. The shockwave flashed through him, burning his skin. The chanting around him stopped and, in the void left by that silence, his feeble sobs echoed. A great whale floated by them, its call piercing his soul. It bled from its mouth. Its eyes were missing. It sang to him. He raised a hand to reach out, desperately seeking some connection, but one of the men grabbed it and yanked him up the stone stairs toward an altar.

The hooded figures pushed him down onto it, pulled at him, started removing his clothes. They bathed him, gave him new clothes, put rings on his fingers, combed his hair, all punctuated by the whale’s sorrowful song. He fought the entire time, frantic, punching, kicking. They restrained him, the chains cutting into his skin. A knife hovered over his throat. He went still. The tears rolled up from the corners of his eyes, but his crying was silent. Right until the end, he thought he could fight, thought he could find some way out.

A man stood over him, knife raised high. The chanting started again, rising, drowning out the whale. The knife came down, puncturing his throat.

He couldn’t breathe!

His lungs filled with blood, his body convulsing, his vision blurring. The whale shrieked, a tortured cry. His lungs burned with pressure; they were going to explode if he didn’t expel his own blood. His hands twisted against the chains, his back arching as he pushed against his bonds. The man held the knife in his throat, pinning his spine to the cold stone.

He couldn't breathe...

It was taking too long. He couldn’t stand the agony. He shook, the whale cried, the men chanted, the world went black.

The chains burned hot and twisted, snapped. His body went limp, the blood drained. The man removed the knife. Had it worked? The great whale cried its last, a magnificent corpse in the backdrop.

He didn't breathe.

His fingers twitched, his eyelids fluttered. The great gash about his throat began to close, skin melting back together. His eyes opened, black as the void itself.

He pushed himself up from the stone, blood-smeared and cold as ice. The men were silent, stunned at their own success. They watched him in reverence. He swung his legs over the side of the altar, placing his feet upon the ground, then pushed, ascending into the air like he was born to ride the void’s currents. He smiled, a fascinated laugh escaping his lips. The mirth died as he saw the whale once again, remembering its song, a eulogy for its own death.

He looked down upon the men, the men who had made him, made a sacrifice of a terrified boy, dragged him to his death. He cast his gaze over them, scrutinising them all in turn. He found nothing of note in any of them.

"You bore me," he said, finding his voice changed. In a blink, the men turned to stone.

He looked once more at the whale before departing; the echoes of its heart-wrenching song would drift through the music of the void for the next four thousand years.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to turn this into an actual story, with shipping and all, but not sure if I'll ever get around to it.


End file.
